


You asked for trouble

by HarleyMischief, Moremoran



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Roleplay Logs, Taken from a roleplay, There will be Porn, jimcroft - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 16:56:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9451181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarleyMischief/pseuds/HarleyMischief, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moremoran/pseuds/Moremoran
Summary: When Mycroft Holmes suddenly lets Jim Moriarty out of holding after 5 long years, the criminal has some questions. Wonder what might happen...





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was taken from an RP @Harleymischief and I wrote, if the format needs to be changed for ease of reading, let me know.

It had been five years since it all happened. And it happened like a blur even on the day. It was meant to be dramatic and the game was set up perfectly, everyone knew their job and what to do. But all it took was one person to get scared and here he was. Five years later laying on the cell floor looking up at the ceiling wondering how the fuck he even lost that trial. He didn't have time to rig it like before - didn't have time to fix what happened. They just swooped in and grabbed him like hawks snagging a fish out of the water. A danger to society they said, mostly because they didn't have actual charges just a lot of 'we think he's responsible for this and that' and wanted to keep him locked away - not even in proper prison but some back room in a government building with the threat of having someone higher up come torture him if he didn't talk which he never saw. Jim lay there in the Government Issue sweats and t-shirt, solving equations in his head waiting for the day where they'd realise they couldn't hold him in there any longer. 

 

It was tiring, honestly he thought that perhaps it would be better to release James Moriarty in to the world just to stop his brother from shooting the wall. He rubbed at his temples in the back of the black car as it pulled up. "Thank you, Jones." He said quietly, stepping out and walking with ease through security and down into the under belly of white hall. He stood outside the door, trying to decide whether he really had the energy. After a beat he swipe his security key card, waited for the buzz and stepped into the small chamber to find the man laying on the small bed mumbling to himself. "How many days now?" Mycroft asked, pulling out his pocket watch to check the time.

 

How many days. There's a few answers to that. "14236 days since I was born. 1846 days since I was put in here. 179 days since you asked that question. 132 days since I was given something other than a strange meat loaf for my meal. And 7 days since I ate last." Jim didn't keep tick marks on the walls for days just had the numbers rolling on his head constantly. Counting and keeping track of things like that made time just sort of - not seem so maddening. He pushed himself up so he was siting, his hair was so long it fell over his eyes and he pushed a hand through to push it back. He'd had a haircut over the last year but it was months ago, and he didn't care how he looked in there, it irritated Mycroft because he would refuse new clothes most times and wouldn't let someone shave him for months at a time leaving him ragged and horrible looking. 

 

Mycroft stood there and listened, he supposed it was some form of entertainment for him. He looked momentarily towards the door and thought about leaving, getting on a plane and going somewhere warm where he didn't have to deal with any of this. "Well seven days isn't healthy is it? I'll get them to bring you something - slightly less substandard than I imagine you're used to by now. Maybe someone fresh rather that processed garbage." He paused. "But then again, you won't eat it will you? You never take anything from me. I'm only trying to make your life a little more comfortable."

 

He moved so he was looking straight at him. "Make my life more comfortable? I think we're five years too late for that, Mycroft Holmes. Realise you don't have anything to actually hold me on and let me leave. That would make my life more comfortable. Though I can't wait to see what my home looks like now. If it's even still standing after whatever you've done to it." He didn't often get angry but the comment seemed to have lit something inside and Jim was climbing off the bed, stalking up to Mycroft with dangerous eyes boring into him. "You know that this isn't over. This is just the beginning of a war now that you've kept me I. Here. You don't lock away a wild animal and torture it for years and expect it to be domesticated when you decide to come pet it. It'll bite your fucking hand off without blinking."

 

Mycroft blinked and simply shrugged his shoulders. "I think you misunderstand the situation. I don't need a reason to keep you here. Technically this place doesn't even exist. Off the radar. This isn't about the law or what is right. You won't leave this cell until o decide you can leave this cell. Only four people know you're even down here and I'm the one who cares most for your well being - so you're not in a particularly good situation there either. I don't need to justify keeping you here. I know, as you well know - that you are a criminal. Criminals belong in prison. Even the ones that are too smart to leave a trail behind them."

 

Jim bit down hard making his jaw tighten and hurt just from the pressure. He might've been a criminal but when he had rules, he fucking played by them and everyone knew what they were. He didn't have anything here for leverage. Didn't have anything to stand on and get a little ahead. And fuck it made him angry - so angry without thinking he slapped Mycroft across the face with the back of one hand before his wrist was gripped like a vice and all he could do was just glare and snarl at the man in front of him. "What are you going to do? Send someone in here to mess me up huh? Kick me around a few times? Send the skinny one so I can imagine it's foreplay."

 

"Stop being a brat." He hissed, letting go of Jim's wrist and rubbing the side of his face gingerly. He'd had quite enough of that for one week and this wasn't supposed to be a headache. "I think you're torturing yourself enough as it is - no need to make the place messy now is there." Mycroft was seething. "I may be in charge of your captivity but understand this - I have to answer for my actions to somebody. I don't care what you do, I was thankful enough to have someone to keep Sherlock occupied. You made too much noise and you got caught. Accept it, get over it."

 

"I've done my time for it now let. Me. Leave!" Jim shouted at him and practically spat as the words left his tongue. "You don't answer to anyone. No one knows I'm here. You could have me killed and no one would blink an eye. Those four people, the three besides you, they could t care less about me if they tried. So why don't you just do it then." He walked up to him again and got toe to toe, able to smell the expensive cologne on him, the scent of dry cleaning and luxury laundry detergent, the faint lingering aroma of coffee and mint from his toothpaste. "I think you're scared of what might happen if I am dead. If dear old Sherlock finds out you killed me. His only real distraction. Big bad Mycroft doesn't have the balls to do anything."

 

"I think you're a child with a magnifying glass who takes pleasure in burning ants. I'm seriously considering the fact you have a severe personality disorder that we should get checked. But I do not believe that you deserve to die." He finished and didn't move, he wasn't intimidated, it took a lot to get him flustered. Mycroft shrugged, the migraine slowly nudging back at him and he could - god he could deal with this. He walked to the door and pushed it open. "Officer, take a walk." And of course he did, without question. "Go on then." Mycroft turned to Jim. "Walk out of here."

 

Jim looked at the open door and then looked at Mycroft. He was honestly waiting for a trap as this was too good to be true. Just letting him go. Leave. Without a second thought. He kept his eyes on Mycroft as he walked towards the door, not blinking, not letting him out of his sight for a second and then - then he was out. Out of the cell, in the corridor and within ten minutes he found a back exit and was out. Free. In sweatpants and a White tshirt but he was free. It took Jim about two hours to get to his only friend's house because God knows what his own place was like and stood outside the door looking around in case there was ambush while he waited after knocking. 

\------------------------------------

Sebastian had been eating his dinner, sitting in front of the television in his underwear. The guy he'd fucked had just left and he wasn't expecting a knock on the door so he very nearly didn't open it. What a mistake that would have been. He blinked at the familiar face standing in his door way. "Fuck. Fucking hell." Sebastian pulled Jim into the flat and couldn’t help but laugh. "You're here. Don't - I didn't know..." Everything was confusing, he was ecstatic but confused and scared that it was a dream and maybe his hands were shaking and he might just faint. "I thought - after they took you I thought..." And then he was throwing arms around Jim's body and clinging to him. "You look like fucking shit though."

 

Jim couldn't get a word in but then he was being squeezed by his best friend and he just laughed. "Yeah I know..." He put his arms around Sebastian and squeezed just as tightly as the other had. "Now let me eat your food." Jim slipped away and sat on the couch in front of the half eaten plate of food on the coffee table and he tuck in not even aware of what he was eating. It was food that didn't look like it had already been digested. It was finished in a matter of minutes, he was actually starving and managed to not leave anything on the plate for the first time in ages. Jim looked up at Sebastian and shrugged, "I was at Whitehall. For five goddamn years. And he just let me go."

 

"White hall? All this fucking time you were just down the fucking river?" He shook his head and picked up the plate to take it into the kitchen, retrieving Jim a glass of water. "I was going to offer you something stronger but maybe you should wait until your stomach is lined a little bit." Sebastian smiled, couldn't stop apparently now that his best friend was right there. "Why did he let you go? What did he say? Fuck you’ve lost weight..." He reached out and touched the side of Jim's face.

 

"He didn't say anything." Jim moved his head a little, he hadn't seen a mirror in a while but knew he was probably gaunt and looked horrible, didn't really fancy anyone touching him just then. "Every few months he'd show up and just sort of glare at me. This time I'd had enough, backhanded him across the face and got him a little on edge and I guess he's had enough, too. Couldn't do anything with me. Wouldn't kill me. So he just said - go. And I left. Took me fucking ages to get here though." He ran his hand through his hair. "I didn't think I'd get out of there Basher." 

 

Sebastian nodded slowly and walked around to take Jim into his arms again. "We can finish it - I'll grab the kit and we can go and make sure you never have to see him alive again." And he would in a heartbeat if that's what Jim wanted. "It's weird though isn't it? He doesn't seem like a guy that would be easily spooked by something. But you obviously got to him - I mean I'm fucking glad you did. I'm glad you came here too. Gunna let me take care of you for a change rather than you stitching up all my wounds."

 

"Yeah..." Jim let himself be moved about in Sebastian's arms and within twenty minutes he was asleep on the couch, only waking up twenty hours later in a bed wrapped in gorgeous soft sheets. His old bed. The one Sebastian always had for him at his place. Jim stayed there with his best friend for a while until he found a new place, lucky Sebastian had drained the accounts and had his own savings hidden away so he could buy somewhere and his friend helped him move in. About three months after he'd gotten released he still couldn't get it out of his head that Mycroft just let him go. Without anything. Just - God it annoyed him not knowing why. He pinned a note to Sebastian's door knowing he wouldn't see it right away and stop him, saying that he's gone to find Mycroft. And he showed up in the man's office while he was in a meeting or something, leaving Jim the opportunity to sneak in and wait for him to return. 

 

Mycroft had spent all morning talking to the Russian ambassador about peace agreements with the United States - it hadn't gone particularly well and he had another meeting scheduled later that afternoon so he was going to take the next half an hour to hide in his office and get through some of the papers work that had slowly been building up on his desk. When he opened the door he groaned. "I assumed that letting you out would either result in an attempt on my life of my never having to see you again. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

 

Jim was sat at Mycroft’s desk as if it was his office and with his suit in it looked like it very well might've been. When the man walked in Jim didn't even move, just sighed, "You're having quite the morning aren't you? The Russians aren't cooperating." He finally looked up at him and narrowed his eyes like he was working on a particularly difficult mathematical problem. "Why did you let me go? You could've had me killed the moment I left the building, you could've had me killed four years ago. But you let me go. Why. Why did you?" 

 

"Honestly?" He paused and shut the door behind him before anyone could interrupt. "I'd had enough. Of you - of Sherlock. A phenomenally bad week, a hideous migraine." Mycroft shrugged. "I don't care enough about what you do to warrant having to deal with it." He rubbed at his face. "Now if you don't mind I was looking forward to a peaceful half an hour before my next meeting - unless you had something else you wanted to ask me. In which case I would ask that you sit in one of the other chairs."

 

Jim watched him and shrugged. "Sounds like you need to get laid." He spoke casually as he stood up and walked towards one of the other chairs to the side of the desk, still calculating everything just in case. "Honestly I'm surprised that never happened. You always seemed like the kind of man that would enjoy that. Using sex for power. Showing dominance. Hell of a stress relief too." He sat down and crossed one leg over the other, "How boring is that answer? God Sherlock could've come up with a better reason to let me go. You didn't want to deal with it? So just leave me in there and come back next year. Or don’t come back. You could've had me sent to a maximum security prison where many of my previous employees or clients or rivals were locked up and I would've been out of your hair."

 

"Why are you asking so many questions? If you're that desperate I'll send you back, lock the door and we can forget it ever happened." He took the seat behind his desk ignoring any suggestion of sexual intent because he really didn't want to go there, not now. "I let you go - because you're not stupid and most of the population are. I wouldn't want to be the one to break that brain of yours - that would be a worse crime than anything you've ever committed - and the migraines really are atrocious. I laid down for twenty minutes after you'd left." He wasn’t quite sure why he tacked that on in the end but the words had left his lips before he could think about it.

 

"Oh poor thing. Migraines. Have a little nap and see if you feel better." Jim used a fake caring voice, mocking him. He rolled his eyes and scoffed. It still bothered him that Mycroft let him go as if he was doing something for the greater good by letting a criminal free. "I see why Sherlock calls you boring." Jim got up and walked to Mycroft’s desk and pushed over a stack of papers like a child. "Oooh what are you going to do now huh? Tell me to go away ‘cause you've got a headache? Poor Mikey Mycroft has a headache. Needs a nap." Honesty now Jim just wanted to see what kind of rise he could get out of Mycroft. 

 

Mycroft stood up suddenly, looking down at Jim. "I've spent all but seven years of my life taking care of an obnoxious brat. You're nothing new, James. I can see why you two get on so well. Go and play your Peter Pan games with him because I'm not interested. You don't know me, not an inch of me." He walked away to the side of the room and grabbed himself one of the bottles of water that he kept in the fridge, taking a long swig and wishing it was something a lot stronger.

 

Oh he liked this. This fiery Mycroft. It was a lot better than the boring fake attitude he put up like a gate around himself. Jim grinned and didn't leave the side of the desk. "No I like this now. You're finally acting like a human. A real person. So tense and angry you need to let it go. Now come on Mycroft. That can't be all you have in you." Jim perched on the edge of the desk and looked down at the files there, flipping through the edges with the tip of a finger, wondering if maybe he had a death wish or some weird pit of guilt in his stomach because he maybe should've been punished a lot harsher than he was. Or maybe he liked causing trouble and Mycroft looked better when he was being aggressive. 

 

Why wouldn't the man just bloody leave, he didn't want to snap, he didn't want to lose his composure because it was really all he had - people didn't see him break. "This is what you do, you work people, force them into a situation to make them crack. It's a clumsy form of manipulation but I suppose that doesn't matter as you're using it for entertainment rather than to gain a service." Mycroft shrugged. "Why don't you go and annoy Sherlock, you've got the perfect opportunity now and I promise not to intervene. With any luck you'll finish each other off and I can have some quiet."

 

"No, no. I don't want to play with Sherlock right now. He's been trying to get in contact with me for weeks now and it's betting ridiculous and I like making him sweat. Makes it better when I beat him." Jim turned on the desk so he was looking right at Mycroft and made a few papers fall onto the ground. "No I like this. I like playing with you. I was intimidated before you know. You were untouchable. Or I didn't want to touch you. But now, now I could. I'm playing with you now and I think soon you'll want to play back." He slid off the desk and straddled Mycroft’s lap as he pushed a finger against his chest. "You're going to want to play." He pushed again before stepping away, backing up to the door. 

 

Suddenly he had his lap full of psychopath and for once he didn't have an answer, all his words had just disappeared and he was left staring ahead like a gold fish. "Get out of my office." But the words were moot as Jim had already turned around and closed the door. He wasn't sure what had just happened but he didn't play - he wasn't going to want play back. Or so he kept telling himself, right up until he was sat at home in his office with his tie loosened and a pair of glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. 

> Try not to get arrested. I'm trying to have a quiet evening. M

 

Jim had gone home to a proper bollocking thanks to Sebastian who did not appreciate him going to see the man that locked him up for five years. He didn't regret going though. Now that he was sitting in his front room watching mindless television alone he didn't regret going to his office and causing a fuss. Especially now that he was getting a text from the man himself. 

> You're the only one that could arrest me. JM 

 

> So if I were to want to do anything tonight is the night since you're spending your evening at the bottom of a scotch bottle. JM 
> 
>  
> 
> Or maybe I'll actually behave tonight. The possibilities are endless. JM

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes and looked at the glass half filled with dark amber liquid. Was he that predictable? That boring. 

 

> Maybe I need some trouble. M

 

He very almost didn't send the message and then as soon as he did he couldn't help but think he'd regret it. Mycroft could just imagine the look on Jim's face when he read it. 

 

> Stop smirking. It's irritating. M

 

Jim laughed aloud at the text because he knew how to play with the Holmes boys. Mycroft was no different just a little more of a challenge. He went and got himself a drink, texting as he walked. 

 

> Oh I'm never going to stop smirking because you're irritated I got it right and that you want some trouble. JM 
> 
>  
> 
> What kind of trouble? JM 

 

Jim could think of a few things he could do, seal this, break that, blow up a building or two but those things took time and Mycroft seemed to want it immediately. Instant gratification. 

 

> Maybe the kind that wouldn't get me arrested. JM 
> 
>  
> 
> I don't particularly want to have to leave the house so nothing on an international scale if you don't mind. M

 

He felt committed to it now, as if - by walking away he would be admiring defeat and he hated losing, that and he didn't want to let Jim win. So what kind of trouble was he looking for in reality? Because yeah, okay. Maybe he was bored, maybe everything was grey and horrible and dull - he just handled it better than his brother did. 

 

> Alright then. Home delivery it is. JM 

 

Jim went right to his index of phone numbers and found something that Mycroft might actually like. Some trouble he could really...get into. Soon a male prostitute would show up at Mycroft’s door wearing nothing but a trench coat which he would drop the moment Mycroft opened the door as per Jim's instruction. 

 

> You don't have to text me right away, I'd hate to get in the way of trouble just as it starts. JM

 

Mycroft could do nothing but roll his eyes and then get up and walk to the door when the bell went, he nodded upwards to the security camera so they would know it was safe and then went ahead and opened the door. What he found there was - a surprise and he blinked a few times before stepping aside to let the - well he wasn't that old, 25 at most. Beautiful, muscular. And why not - it had been a very, very long week. 


End file.
